


Sibling Mine, Sister Mine, Enemy Mine, Brother Mine

by 221B Baker Skull (PseudoAuthor)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Childhood Holmes brothers, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Eurus and Sherlock are twins, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Mycroft Holmes (POV) - Third Person, Post Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Pre-Series, Protective Mycroft, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoAuthor/pseuds/221B%20Baker%20Skull
Summary: “William, say hello to Mycroft.”“Sherlock,” he murmurs, because he’s making the best out of a bad situation, and if he is to have siblings, then they are going to be siblings with extraordinary names. Eurus is unique, so he’ll be damned if Sherlock is anything different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock more - Iove the use of 'brother mine'. They say they don't like sentiment but they are quite sentimental lol - it was hard writing Mycroft to be cold because he's actually...not?? 
> 
> Set pre-series (from Mycroft as a child) to Post TLD. There's an exploration of Eurus and what might have cause her to...go away (I made her unstable, though I'm like 99% sure she's actually lovely or something). 
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

For seven years, Mycroft Holmes in an only child.

He’s not actually, but he likes to pretend he is.

As a baby he is fussy, unwilling to part from his mother or father for more than a few minutes. It gets so bad that they move his cot into their bedroom tucking it next to his father’s side to be lulled to sleep by his snoring. This soon graduates to being cradled on his father’s chest, his cheek pressed against wiry hair and skin, and his thumb popped into his mouth.

(Much, much later, when presented with visual proof of this childhood habit an adult Mycroft will sequester the photos away leading them to think that they’re destroyed. After all, much to his parents’ displeasure, he abhors sentiment. In reality however, they’re tucked into the dustjacket of his mother’s first published textbook that lies on a shelf in his bedroom.)

Whilst growing up he favours blue cotton shorts, a white polo shirt, and is more often than not, forced into socks with lace around the ankles and patent leather shoes – hand-me-downs from Sherrinford who grows ‘ _like a weed’_ in his mother’s words.

If in school Mycroft would no doubt be bullied by other children who’d think him ‘ _mean’, ‘odd’, ‘a dickhead’,_ but for most of his childhood he is home-schooled learning the ins and outs of mathematical and political theory from his mother.

When not learning, Mycroft is playful. He licks the undersides of his mother’s chocolate chip cookies in order to claim them and keep them out of his big brothers grubby hands, but is put out by his father swiping them with a wink, unperturbed at his son’s saliva. He is annoyed by his father’s bow tie and continuously tries to unravel it whilst held in his father’s arms as he walks around the garden pointing out flowers and translating the rules of football into French.

Around strangers he is mute. Around acquaintances he is quiet or solitary. Around his family he speaks evenly – deduces that the man on the bus who tipped his hat at his mother has recently become lonely, that Leroy Jones across the road who likes playing cops and robbers is being hurt in a way that’s _not right_ – and although he dislikes being cuddled and being called Mike, he tolerates it because crying although effective leaves him feeling ashamed in a way that he is yet to understand.

Mycroft as a child is by all accounts is perhaps emotionally distant but happy– or as happy as one can be when one is intellectually advanced and living in a world that runs at the pace of a snail.

And then things start to change.

* * *

Pregnancy and subsequent preparation forces his father to go out at odd times at night in search of odd combinations of food items. A compromise he supposes as his mother has recently admitted to craving cigarettes despite never smoking.

When asked by teachers and family friends if he’s excited about the impending baby he shrugs, too busy cataloguing whether Miss Jenkin is aware that her boyfriend is seeing his own boyfriend, or whether Uncle Dennis – except not his actual Uncle, mind you – knows that he’s on the fast track to a heart complication. He won’t voice these deductions out loud of course, it is not his place.

A few months short of the due date, his mother comes in one afternoon sweeping him into a hug and declaring that she’s been doubly blessed. _“Twins! Mikey, Sherry, I’m having twins!”_ In response, Mycroft fakes excitement, corrects his mother that his name is _Mycroft_ , and kisses her cheek, standing to the side of her belly. Sherrinford looks put out, begrudgingly hugging her.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He shrugs. “The house will be quite loud now.”

Mycroft blinks, and aghast at the prospect of two wailing babies, and glares at his mother’s tummy.

After months of waiting, a cry breaks his sleep in the middle of the night. He hears shouting from his parent’s bedroom, only just managing to lace his shoes up when his father burst through the door. “Mike, we need to get your mother to hospital.” There’s a flurry of movement, his father bundling him into a jacket and patting his head with excitement and nerves building steadily.

The car is already idling in the driveway when he emerges behind his father; his mother already strapped into the passenger side. Mycroft sits in the back with his mother’s belongings at his feet feeling the first tendrils of discomfort as he hears her scream again.

Sherrinford is at his friend’s place having a sleepover. It’s pedestrian - _boring_ , but Mycroft finds himself wishing that he was there right now.

“Mummy?” he wants to tell her to stop. Be quiet. Shut up.

She screams again and then takes a few quick gasps. “They’re coming Mikey, much faster than I anticipated. Mummy’s fine, I promise. Don’t be scared,” her voice is tight. She’s trying to be upbeat, an attempt to protect him, to display that nothing is wrong.

 It’s a contradiction to his father who looks pale and shaken, his hands tight on the steering wheel – his voice wobbly as he lets out assurances.

Mycroft knows that childbirth is painful but this seems cruel on a level that he can’t fathom and he curses his oncoming sibling, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

“Sweetheart, just hold on a few moments longer,” his father says.

His mother screams again and he tucks his knees against his chest, pressing his head down and tries not to cry.

At the hospital she’s whisked away and he sits with his father’s arm around his shoulder. “Go to sleep Mike, I’ll wake you up when the time comes.”

Eventually, he is gently shaken awake and led to his mother.

In the midst of his seventh year on Earth, his mother introduces him to Eurus and William Sherlock Scott.

They are small and helpless in a way that bodes well for manipulation and observation. Both are asleep, swaddled in the pink and blue blankets that were gifted to them by some aunt or another with accompanying hats on their heads.

Mycroft leans in closer, his hand resting on the bed until his father picks him up and places him on the bed too. He hears a distant click of a camera, and inwardly sighs at the implication, refocussing his attention on the twins.

Sherlock, who is the closest to him, opens his eyes – his irises cloudy and gaze unfocussed.

“William, say hello to Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, because he’s making the best out of a bad situation, and if he is to have siblings, then they are going to be siblings with extraordinary names. Eurus is unique, so he’ll be damned if Sherlock is anything different.

His mother kisses his head. “What do you think Siger? Should we name him William or Sherlock?” She nudges Eurus closer to Sherlock. Eurus’ eyes remain closed.

“I know you wanted William for your father, love,” his father begins, “but I think it’s fine to keep it as is. We’ll just call him Sherlock – keeps with the spirit of things don’t you think?”

His mother hums. “Sherlock.”

Eurus lets out a whimper that soon turns into a full blown cry. This prompts Sherlock to open his mouth and wail, not to be outdone by his older - by four minute - sister.

His mother tells him to be a good brother. That it is his responsibility to look out for his siblings and he smiles, short of verbal agreement.

He is not happy that they are born.

His parents had him (and Sherrinford), wasn’t that enough?

* * *

“Mikey, Siger! Look!” Mycroft walks into the room seeing Eurus taking a cautious step towards her mother. Sherlock is watching her newfound two-legged ability, clapping along with his mother before crawling after Eurus, careful not to distract her.

His father crouches next to his mother encouragingly.

He rolls his eyes intending to leave but his mother’s eyes fix him to his place. When she finally reaches them, she’s swept up in hugs and kisses.

With the lack of attention, Sherlock begins to whimper. Mycroft rolls his eyes again, dragging his brother out of the room by his hands into the kitchen. He gives Sherlock a tub of yoghurt and sits next to him on the floor behind the kitchen counter.

“Stop letting her beat you.” He thinks it’s wise advice. Sherlock is lagging behind, only just; but Eurus is beating him to every major milestone thus far. “Learn to read. Stop being slow.”

“I heard Eurus is walking now.” Sherrinford, with his textbook in hand waves as their father goes past the door. “Mike, he’s not slow,” he sighs, taking another yogurt tub out of the fridge. “You’re a genius, just like the rest of us, aren’t you Lock?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and bites his tongue. _His name is Sherlock._

Sherlock stares at him consideringly before slapping a hand against his chest. “Myc’of!” He looks and sounds offended at the prospect of Mycroft not agreeing.

When Mycroft looks down, there’s a wide smear of yoghurt on his t-shirt.

* * *

He overhears his mother tell Sherlock to be careful as he sobs into her shirt. Mycroft although curious doesn’t intrude, and hovers in the doorway.

She tuts, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “How do you always get into these states?”

When she pulls away to get him a tissue Mycroft immediately begins cataloguing his little brother. There’s blood covering the bottom half of his face, and a slight purpling on both sides of his nose. His knees are scraped; dust mingling with blood, a line of red dripping down and soaking into his white sock. “What happened to him?”

“Oh Mikey, Sherlock was running and took a tumble.” She wipes away more blood from Sherlock’s face, holding his chin between her thumb and forefinger as he tries to move, uncomfortable at the stinging. “My darling boy, shh, I know it hurts.” His nose doesn’t look broken from what Mycroft can tell. “Be a dear and get your sister sorted, won’t you?”

He blinks. “What happened to her?”

“She has blood on her dress.”

He goes to searching for his sister, finding her in Sherlock’s room. She has her hand poised to reach for the tail of Sherlock’s most beloved friend Redbeard. Redbeard continues to doze under the window, his tail swishing casting dust-motes into the air.

“Mummy says there’s blood on your dress.”

She startles; her hand dropping to her side before her expression clears and she looks worryingly at him. “Sherlock fell.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I tried to help.”

_Liar._

“That’s good.” He holds his hand out encouraging her to come to the door. “Shall we get you into your nightclothes? Or are you still intent on adventure?”

She cocks her head to the side brushing past him. “Adventure.”

When she’s out of sight, the door to her room closing behind her, Mycroft walks across the room, and shifts Redbeard’s doggy bed slightly to the side.

There’s a knife half hidden underneath it.

* * *

Although cherubic looking, when the occasion strikes and Sherlock’s moody and had enough, he throws fits. He spouts observation unimpeded and without a care about its effects - Sherlock does not seem to possess a filter. Their mother has taken to holding her hand over his mouth when she thinks he’s going to say something particularly offensive.

 _Mrs Hoskins is playing with Mr Roshan_ (while in the supermarket checkout with Mrs Roshan standing in front of him) _…Mummy ate three jam biscuits, no wonder she’s getting round_ (when she told him to clean away his toys) _…Mycroft, Jeremy like-likes you_ (when Jeremy called him a runt) _…Daddy doesn’t think Nanna loves us because she keeps giving us presents that can kill us_ (when he told Sherlock to stop deducing) _…I can’t find my shoe because Redbeard ate it – its on his fur_ (when asked to put his shoes on) _…_

He never voices his deductions about Eurus.

* * *

There’s something odd between his brother and sister.

* * *

“Mycroft, Sherlock’s an idiot,” Eurus announces to the room at large one day. She smiles, her teeth already setting her face with a shark-like grin. They’re sitting in the living room, Eurus attempting to read Kant with her eyes hovering over the top tracking her twin. Sherlock is lying on the floor with a magnifying glass in his hands, following a line of ants, in his dust covered pale grey overalls.

Pulling his eyes away from his own novel, Mycroft’s eyes turn to his little brother and he grins, “Oh, is he?”

There’s an understanding between them, Mycroft and Eurus, a possible product of their demeanour's that contrast sharply with Sherlock’s naivety and wonder at the world.

Compared to them, Sherlock is _sweet._

“Yes,” she states, but doesn’t elaborate further. “You’re an idiot,” she says to Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t tear his eyes away from the ants, but Mycroft can see anger settle in his body as he sits up, biting his bottom lip. He slowly moves his gaze from the ants to Eurus, his eyes narrowing. “I’m smart,” he says with his lisp. “Mummy says so.”

“You’re an idiot. You talk funny, and you didn’t know that William Shakespeare wrote plays,” she tells him.

Mycroft sighs at half of her reasoning. “He has a lisp – that doesn’t make him an idiot. Don’t say that ever again,” he warns her with a glare. She sticks her tongue out in response. “Eurus – I’m not joking.” He won’t stand for that sort of belittlement, of something that remains out of a person’s control. He sees Sherlock begin to grin and that simply won’t do either. “On the other point, she’s right though – Sherlock, really? Why must you be so _slow?_ ”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “I’m not slow and I don’t care.”

Eurus throws her book to the side. “You should.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’ll throw out the _rest_ of your experiments.”

Mycroft smiles.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he rises to his feet. “No!”

“They’re gone. I gave the jars to Mummy,” she tells him. Her face is passive, but her voice is sweet. Faux kindness.  

He watches Sherlock, his mouth beginning to tremble and swipe at his face, trying to stop the tears from escaping to any point past his upper cheek. “But I hadn’t finished!” Sherlock looks at him, probably hoping for another rebuke but when nothing comes he lets out a sob and runs out of the room.

Mycroft’s smile falters. Sherlock will learn to control his emotions eventually, he reasons to himself. He expects Eurus to feel a little bad at making her twin upset. That’s a thing isn’t it, with twins, a connection so strong that it beats all others, but Eurus’ face is triumphant, her eyes fiery with pride and this only confirms that that they are less alike that he first thought.

* * *

As they grow up, Eurus and Sherlock take to trailing after him. Both are quick witted, disconcertingly smart enough to be formidable opponents. Eurus is much like himself, quiet and observant; she holds her tongue in the face of deducing information at a glance - there’s a kinship that he doesn’t quite feel towards Sherlock.

Except…Eurus is cold. Perhaps even colder than he is. She bullies Sherlock relentlessly, always out of sight and sound from their parents’ eyes and Mycroft has seen her unremorseful face as she maims living creatures and scowls whenever their parents’ backs are turned.

“You’re so mean!” he hears her screech one day. “Why don’t you die?!”

Their parents have been out for a few hours and last he saw, Sherlock was trying to understand the molecular makeup of their mother’s expensive cosmetics. 

He moves quickly, staying out of sight, spying her standing above Sherlock with his hair fisted in her hand pulling roughly.

“Let me go!” Sherlock cries. The microscope slides precariously across the table as his elbow smashes against it as he reaches up trying to defend himself.

She pulls harder. “Die.”

“No!” Sherlock’s half out of his seat, his face red and snot dripping from his nose. “I hate you!”

 _This is quite enough._ He feigns coming down the stairs and calls loudly, “Sherlock!” There’s a crash and Sherlock’s cry of surprise.

 “Where are my belts?” he asks, already knowing that Sherlock has them in his possession. “What happened?” As he enters the room he sees the microscope on the floor in pieces.

“I scared him and he knocked it over,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth is set in a grim line. “That’s okay,” he grits out. “It was an accident.”

“In that case…Sherlock my belts.” When Sherlock makes no move to get them, his eyes still fixed on the floor where Eurus is carefully picking up shards of glass, Mycroft coughs. “Now please.”

Upstairs in Sherlock’s room, even though his catapult is half unfinished, Sherlock begins to dismantle it, undoing one of the buckles.

“Stop – if you must finish it fine.” It’s worrying enough that he hasn’t said a word, but not arguing about having Mycroft ruin his experiment is a concern that can’t be ignored.  “Sherlock, I’m going to tell you a story.” When Sherlock says nothing, he continues weaving a short tale that makes Sherlock clench his fist and look sullenly out of the window. “…in the end the east wind takes us all.”

“Eurus is named after that,” Sherlock says turning back around.

“And I don’t know why, but she’s coming to get you.”

* * *

For Sherlock’s tenth birthday they spend the weekend at the beach.

Sherrinford has come back home for the weekend offering to keep an eyes on the twins when their mother and father want some peace and quiet.

Sherlock wears his pirate hat, running across the sand with Redbeard by his side whenever he can and whining about having to eat cake with fruit on the top of it. _“It’s cake – it’s meant to be unhealthy!”_

On the Sunday when Mycroft wakes up and looks around the beach house there are no signs of the twins. “Sherrinford?” He pokes his brother with the tip of his umbrella, and calls his name again.

Sherrinford, having slept on the couch, grunts; turning around and blearily glaring at him. “Yeah Mike?”

“Where are Sherlock and Eurus?”

“Dunno, why?”

“They aren’t here,” he stresses. The weather outside looks gloomy, like it might rain. The grasses gently sway in the breeze and the waves roll over each other creating foam along the shoreline. “I’m going to find them.” His brother grunts, turning over again.

Shaking his head, Mycroft begins to walk, catching the trail of his wayward siblings. Eventually he spots them in the distance and… _something is wrong._ He begins to walk faster, his shoes starting to fill with sand, scratching his feet as the wind whips at his face.

They are standing near the edge of the water, Eurus with Redbeard at her side, the leash pulled tight and wrapped around her fist. “Sherlock!” he yells, but his brother doesn’t turn around.

Redbeard stumbles down into the sand. “Redbeard!” Sherlock cries.

Mycroft walks faster, annoyed that he didn’t force Sherrinford to come with him. Just as he approaches, he hears the wind carry his little sister’s voice towards him, her words chilled, loathsome and streaked with anger. “They like me best,” Eurus seethes. From somewhere she pulls out a long blade, the tip sharp…one of their mother’s favourites. Sherlock stands his ground. “You don’t belong here. You are so… _cruel_.”

She tugs on Redbeard’s leash, the knife thrusting out in Sherlock’s direction.

“Let him go!”

Sherlock screams.

“Mycroft!”

He hates running. He thinks it’s the most inconvenient action that a person undertakes. Running for fun? Preposterous! Running for health? Sad. But Mycroft stows his feelings and runs as fast as he is able to.

There’s blood staining the shoreline and he catches sight of Sherlock pressing a hand to the fur of Redbeard’s coat. She comes at them again and Mycroft blocks attack with his umbrella before grabbing her by the wrists and pushing her into the ocean.

“Sherlock, run!”

Sherlock doesn’t lift his head, his palms stained with his best friend’s blood. Cursing, Mycroft runs half towards him noting Redbeard’s sluggish responses and knowing that there might be nothing they can do for him. He lifts Sherlock up from his armpits half carrying, half dragging him away.

His brother kicks out, his arms stretched towards Redbeard who lolls his head hearing Sherlock’s distress. “He’s still alive! Mycroft!”

Eurus is spluttering in the water, wiping her eyes – the waves colliding with her back and pushing her around like a child in a circle of bullies.

“She’ll kill you!” he shouts, taking a firm grip of Sherlock’s wrist.

His brother looks back to the beach, half stumbling as they reach the grass. He starts running in earnest as the house comes into view; tears, snot and sand marring his face. It’s not a pretty sight. “She’ll kill him!”

Not his problem. It’s cruel but true. He bangs on the door. “Sherrinford! Open the door!” He hears Sherrinford swear and he hits the door again with an open palm. A quick glance at Sherlock shows him shivering, his arms across his body, his skin red with blood. “Sherrinford! I’m not playing around! Dad!”

The door swings forward, Sherrinford looking angry for a second before his eyes land on Sherlock. “What the hell?”

Mycroft pushes Sherlock through the door, relinquishing his care to his older brother. “Dad!”

Their father’s footsteps thus down the stairs. “Boys what’s going…?” His father scans the room. “Where’s Eurus?”  

Sherlock hiccups once, pushing away Sherrinford’s hands as they try to inspect his own. “She killed him, Dad, she killed him.”

The beach is no longer a pleasant place.

* * *

The vet smells like disinfectant. _Married. Two children. Three dogs_. He looks at the ring on his finger. _Unhappily married._

Their father looks grim but he’s trying to hide it – his jaw unclenching smoothing his face. _So, it’s not good._ Their father takes a knee in front of Sherlock.

Eurus was gone by the time they got to the beach. Their father wrapped Redbeard in a blanket and carried him to the car.

Poison and multiple stab wounds – it’s amazing that he was still alive.

 “Sherlock, I need you to be brave. Can you do that?”

Sherlock looks up at him and he looks away already knowing what their father is going to say

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is trembling.

Their mother isn’t with them. She’s with Sherrinford back at the beach trying to find Eurus. It’s getting cold and she doesn’t want _her baby girl_ to freeze to death. “Redbeard is in pain. The vet thinks that it’ll be better if he’s…put down.”

Sherlock blinks. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock will hate him. He knows this. Sherlock wants him to find a solution. Sherlock expects him to find a solution because he calls Sherlock _stupid, idiot, slow_ , and with his own twin telling him the same day in and day out it’s now an indisputable fact in his brain.

He’s the smart one. He’s said those words to his little brother - _don’t be smart Sherlock, I’m the smart one –_ and now he’s going to be dealing with the fallout for possibly the rest of his life.

“It’ll be a kindness,” he says softly walking away from Sherlock’s quiet sob.

He finds out later that Eurus is found a few hundred metres up the beach, the knife still clutched in her hand.

* * *

Sherrinford paces the length of the living room.

“You can’t just send her away!”

“She’s a dangerous person,” he counters calmly, perched on the edge of the couch.

Their parents are sitting together, their mother’s hand clasped tight around their father’s forearm. They look as if they’ve aged ten years in two weeks.

“She needs help. Mum, Dad, you know I’m right,” Sherrinford says pleadingly. “I’ll take her back with me.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t have much power now, but one day he will. He’ll have an army at his disposal. “What’s to stop her from coming back here?”

They argue for another two days before Eurus is sent away to live under Sherrinford’s guardianship.

* * *

He spies Sherlock sitting in the garden near Redbeard’s grave and goes to him, intending to bring him inside.

“Mummy thinks that I’ll be ready for another pet again.”

Their mother means well, he’s sure of it but this won’t be good. “Sherlock, do you want to be hurt again?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

He thinks about how best to phrase it, the command that Sherlock turn into a robot. “Then you must never care – for people, or things. Everything is a means to an end.”

Their mother will hate him as well – he knows she will.

“That’s-” Sherlock starts.

He cuts him off. “Have you ever seen me particularly upset, have you ever seen me cry?”

“No.” Sherlock frowns.

“Nothing hurts me.” And it’s true. Nothing hurts. He hasn’t been hurt in years. Crying is a weakness. It leaves you vulnerable, and allows your opponents to manipulate you.

Disbelieving eyes meet his own. “Mummy says that you’re sad.”

“I’m happy in my own way.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You don’t have friends.”

“Neither do you,” he counters. Sherlock had tried but by the time his first day at school ended seventeen children were crying and two teachers had threatened to quit.

“I know.”

“You don’t need them Sherlock. Caring, it’s not an advantage.”

* * *

Sherlock holds a photograph in his hand and throws it on the table whilst they are all eating dinner. “Who’s this?” he asks, wincing as his voice cracks in a particularly annoying manner.

_Puberty._

He doesn’t miss it at all.

Their mother stares at the photo. “Sherlock what did you do?”

There’s no recognition in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s genuinely asking. “Who’s Eurus?”

Their father places his fork down and takes the photo. “Your sister.” They don’t talk about her, not since Sherrinford left. Sherlock never mentioned her and they all figured that he was just too traumatised to talk about it. He had been sent to therapy, or more accurately, there had been attempts to send him to therapy but they went along the same lines as sending him to school all those years ago – the end result? Many people crying.

Admittedly, Mycroft finds himself a little proud. “Did you shred her?” he asks using Sherlock’s analogy – anything unimportant gets put through a paper shredder and if he needs that information again, he relearns it unless it’s in his mind palace. 

Sherlock ignores him. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing. She died,” he supplies quickly sending a quick look to their mother who excuses herself from the table. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his mouth twists unhappily. “I miss Redbeard.”

“Sherlock.”

“Caring, yes I know.”

When Sherlock disappears back to his room their mother reappears, her face almost thunderous as she slaps him on the back of the shoulder. “What sort of game are you playing at Mycroft?!”

“I’m not playing any sort of a game,” he tells her, hoping that she trusts him enough to sort this out.

* * *

He wakes up to Sherlock sleeping curled at the foot of his bed. “Sherlock…” He crawls forward careful, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, pressing his fingers against his wrist. Sherlock whimpers in his sleep, his eyes pinching tight. “Little brother,” he whispers. “Go to bed.”

Sherlock blinks his eyes, his face contorting through a myriad of expressions before rocketing out of the bed, collapsing in a heap on the floor. It takes him a second to get his bearings before he asks with suspicious eyes, “Did you kidnap me?”

He snorts. “What a novel idea, but no. You come to me.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You kidnapped me.”

“Believe what you will.”  He gestures to the door – the invitation clear, _get out._ “Mummy’s awake and wondering where you are.” The floorboards outside his room creak signalling their mother’s search.

He gets back under the covers watching a flit of hesitation cross Sherlock’s face before it disappears. Sherlock flounces out of the room, no doubt saying goodnight to their mother - the soft murmurs between mother and son slowly disappearing as he departs.

Despite knocking on the door, his mother comes in without invitation. “Everything alright Mike?” she asks softly. He bites back sarcasm and annoyance, taking in her worried eyes, as they drift to the foot of his bed where Sherlock’s dressing gown is half on the floor.

 “Sleepwalking. Possible nightmare.”

Her mouth purses and she nods once. “Shall I?” Her hand makes an aborted reach towards the dressing gown.

He nods, knowing that Sherlock will throw a fit without it. She come in, her steps sure but quiet, folding the robe and pressing it against her stomach. “Do you think he’ll forget?”

“He already has. Sherlock is good at forgetting – his capacity to learn is remarkably limited.”

She tuts. “You’re always so mean to him.”

There is some amount of cruelty in his words but he stands his ground. “I’m protecting him the only way I know how.”

* * *

He begins his professional life occupying a small position in the British government. It’s tedious at first but he vows to make his way up the ladder –he hopes to stick his thumb in all the pies.

* * *

The call had come while he was eating lunch with his colleagues as they tried to figure out the latest security issue that threatened to destabilise a quarter of Asia.

At the hospital he ignores the nurse’s station, immediately making his way up to the second floor. He finds Sherlock’s room and pushes the door open, without knowing what’s behind it. They had said he was alive but from the pallor of his skin Mycroft isn’t so sure.

He spies the chair and takes a seat. He won’t tell. He’ll address this in a calm and constructive manner because Sherlock won’t respond to yelling. To be honest, Sherlock probably won’t respond to him at all.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, they’re unfocused, darting around the room before trying to fix on him.

He feels a spike of anger and immediately shuts his mouth until it passes. “We’ll discuss this when you wake up again,” he eventually warns, watching his little brother’s eyes slip shut.

A few hours later, they open again and when all the niceties are out of the way he stands to his feet, trying to loom over Sherlock in a way that he hopes emphasises the seriousness of what he’s just done.

Sherlock pulls a face, his voice scratchy and confused when he asks, “What _are_ you doing?”

“You were sent here for an education, not to become a drug addict.”

Sherlock scoffs, struggling to sit up in the bed. “I am a user. And more than capable of doing both.”

“You overdosed.” He needs to find Sherlock’s dealer and how mundane is that, his little brother takes drugs and has a dealer. “We’re putting you in a clinic.”

“No.”

Mycroft sighs. “You don’t have a choice.”

Sherlock begins ripping off the monitors ignoring their alarms. “I’m not going into a clinic.” The nurse rushes in and corrals him back to bed, only managing to do so because Sherlock is malnourished, dehydrated and weak.

“You need to make a promise then.”

“To you? Pass.”

“Sherlock…”

“What’s the promise?”

“I need you to promise me that whenever you take something, you write it down. Make a list – I don’t care how many items are on that list, but you have to make one.”

“If I promise what happens?

“You detox at my place – I will give you unsolved police cases and intelligence work to keep you occupied.”

He lets his brother mull it over, already knowing that he’s won this round. “Agreed.”

* * *

>   
> Someone in the cabinet is planning to murder their opposition.  
> MH
> 
> Who is it  
> SH
> 
> Smithfield.  
> MH
> 
> if you know who it is, stop being annoying  
> SH
> 
> I don’t do legwork.  
> MH

* * *

>   
> Sources tell me it’s a danger night.  
> MH
> 
> Are you suicidal?  
> MH
> 
> Why would I tell you if I’m suicidal??  
> SH
> 
> I’ve sent over chips.  
> MH
> 
> Why?  
> SH
> 
> If you’re suicidal, you get chips.  
> MH
> 
> Did you get them?  
> MH
> 
> They’re soggy.  
> SH

* * *

>   
> You’ve taken to working with a certain Inspector Lestrade.  
> MH
> 
> Stop  
> SH
> 
> He tolerates you.  
> MH
> 
> He’s a good man. He might be your friend one day.  
> MH
> 
> Don’t be ridiculous.  
> SH

* * *

He pushes past the broken door and climbs the first set of stairs, trying not to gag at the smell of decay in the air. There are dirty mattresses lined against the walls, each one occupied with people verging on skeletal, their arms flung out to their sides and needles littering the space around them like confetti.

Sherlock’s been missing for a month and a half.

“Myc’of?” he hears from someone behind him.

Dressed in a grey sweatshirt with dark jeans, Sherlock lies on his side. His feet are bare and Mycroft inwardly shudders at the implications.

“Oh brother-mine,” he murmurs carefully sitting near his brother and reaching for the list. It’s barely legible but there it is; what Sherlock’s taken and in what amounts, just as he promised.

Sherlock throws up on the floor near Mycroft’s shoes.

* * *

> Are you alive?  
> MH
> 
> Sherlock – I’ll have the police pick you up.  
> MH
> 
> Leave me alone.  
> SH

* * *

 

John Watson is deceiving.

John Watson is dangerous in ways that Mycroft can't even begin to imagine.

* * *

“Sherrinford, to what do I owe the pleasure.”

His big brother coughs down the line. “We’re back in London.”

“You and the family?” The family consists of Sherrinford, a wife (he wants to say Penelope or Prudence), and four children. As a child Sherlock wanted to be a pirate and Sherrinford apparently wanted to be King of Northern Hemisphere – how the mighty have fallen.

Sherrinford is a librarian.

“Yeah, including Eurus.”

“Wonderful,” he says.

He hears Sherrinford’s breath hitch. “We…we need to put her in a facility – she’s been hurting herself.”

Oh dear. He makes a note to himself to find a suitable place. “Just herself?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll make arrangements.”

* * *

“Was it horrible?” There’s nothing in his fridge. On one hand that’s good, he never has to worry about binging on bad food but on the other hand, he’s hungry. “It sounds very quiet for a reception.”

“I left.” _Oh._ For some reason, Mycroft finds that sad. Sherlock calls him name. “Why are you talking to me?”

Casting a look at the take-away menus, he settles on Thai – it’s been a while. “I have a matter that you need to attend to.”

“Why aren’t you texting, you hate talking to me enough as it is?”

“Sherlock, focus.” And because he can, he asks, “Did it hurt Sherlock? Redbeard, remember.”

There’s nothing for a few minutes before Sherlock snaps at him. “You’re a hypocrite.”

He waits for Sherlock’s explanation. “How so?”

“Sentiment, _brother mine._ ”

_Check and mate._

* * *

Sherlock was right – he is a hypocrite.

He blinks trying to remove the image of his ten year old brother holding his hands above his head with the red dot of a sniper rifle dancing across his chest.

* * *

> Congratulations Godfather.   
> Are you ready for that commitment?  
> MH
> 
> Don’t you have a country to run?  
> SH
> 
> I said yes.  
> There aren’t any actual duties for being a godfather.  
> SH
> 
> I have minions and I wouldn’t know.  
> MH
> 
> What’s the point of this title?   
> SH
> 
> I won’t answer that. I know how you hate repetition.  
> Will you inform the Watsons of the child’s trust fund?  
> MH
> 
> No.   
> SH
> 
> Very well. Pleasant surprise it is.  
> MH

* * *

“Come with me,” he murmurs. He pulls Sherlock away by the cuff of coat-sleeve because Sherlock won’t follow him. Every instinct in Sherlock is telling him to stay because it’s John Watson.

Once outside Sherlock leans against the wall of the corridor and closes his eyes. “She was boring…she didn’t…you saw her,” he says quietly. “Oh god,” he covers his mouth, and bends over.

“Are you going to be sick?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He takes a few deep breaths and then stands up straight.

“Come with me.”  

Sherlock follows him without a word of defiance.

* * *

The room is hazardous.

“You are the most loathsome man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing,” Sherlock spits out.  

It’s the drugs talking.

It’s been a week and a half since Mary’s death.

He had come by after hearing that Sherlock had taken back to slipping in quiet alleyways meeting people with dubious practices.

“Regardless, you are my blood. I will protect you, despite your wishes.”

Sherlock spins, his robe tangling between his legs and he stumbles into the coffee table. “Out of love? Or guilt? Mother told you to protect us – and you…” Sherlock trails off – his mind struggling to remember the events of his birthday.

“What did I do?” he asks.  

Sherlock shakes his head. “He was _my_ dog and you killed him…I don’t know how you did it but you never liked him.”  

He needed to be sure. She had to do something drastic otherwise they could have never have kept her away.

“Sherlock, I didn’t do anything to your dog.”

“No…you did,” he says, his voice starting to sound unsure. Sherlock shakes his head again.

Mycroft puts his gloves back on making mental notes of what may be particularly dangerous in the flat. “You have your version and I have mine. Sherlock, our parents have already lost one child, I will not allow them to lose another.” He sighs. “I am not your enemy.”

Sherlock scoffs.

* * *

“I know what you did to my brother.” John doesn’t say anything but his jaw clenches tighter.  “My brother is a frustrating man but he is a good man – you forget that.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t speak – just nod in the right places.” John remains silent. “You assaulted my brother. I am sorry for your loss but you do not get to take it out on him. You are going to go to an anger management course and mandatory counselling sessions with a therapist of my choosing. I know the best of the best – you won’t find them with _Google_. Do you agree?”

He can sense John vibrating with anger. “If I don’t?” It’s belligerent - a reflexive response to being told what to do. Mycroft doesn’t blame him for that. However, he saw the reports (both Ms Hooper’s and Inspector Lestrade’s), witnessed the footage from the mortuary, and he’s angry because he warned Sherlock about sentiment.

Sherlock managed to make a friend…a _best friend_ , and his best friend beat him to the ground.   

“Dr Watson, from the moment you started associating with my brother, I knew you were going to be a danger to him. If you don’t agree you will go to jail. I believe you murdered a cab driver?”

There’s a moment of silence and then John expels a breath, his shoulders still tense, but his voice quiet as he bows his head in defeat. “Fine.”

* * *

Probably to the surprise of many, he shows up at 221B, ready to take his turn in watching Sherlock for the evening.

“Mrs Hudson,” he smiles congenially as the woman lets him through the door.

“Mycroft,” she says. So she’s graduated to first names. “He’s a bit cranky,” she says pushing a tray filled with sandwiches and a cup of tea into his arms. “Give this to him.” She disappears before he can decline.

He takes his time walking up the stairs and without knocking enters the flat. Sherlock lifts his head from the couch and groans. “Oh, go away!”

Placing the tray in the kitchen, he walks into the living room surveying his brother. Sherlock is still unkempt, his hair messy, his jaw dusted with the beginning of a beard. He’s in pyjamas though, although Mycroft doubts that he’s had much sleep.

Sherlock sees the overnight bag and shakes his head, getting to his feet and walking towards him. “No, not in a million years. It was bad enough as a child but I refuse to be under the same roof with you, any more than I have to.” The overnight bag is wrested from his grip and thrown out of the door onto the landing.

“Oh cake.” Mycroft says ignoring the tantrum. He’ll get the bag later.  “Celebration?”

 “I see the diet has taken a backseat.” Sherlock says ignoring him in turn. “Would you like some tea? How do you take it, sugar with a splash of bleach?”

He smiles unwilling to give Sherlock the fight that he wants to have. “We got rid of the bleach and I know you haven’t bought more.” He settles himself in Sherlock’s armchair. “I’ll stay on the couch.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You’ve never stayed on a couch in your life. You aren’t staying.”

It’s time to bring out the best weapon in his arsenal. “Mummy asked me too.”

There’s a moment when he thinks that Sherlock’s going to yell obscenities at him but Sherlock eventually says, “You told them.”

“Of course I did – they watch the news. Dad was quite upset.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Mycroft would tell him to sit but he won’t, his input won’t be welcomed. Instead, he gestures to the collection of games in the corner of the room.

“Operation?” Sherlock says retrieving the box.

His hands are shaking violently.

“With your hands?”

“I’d still beat you.”

The game is on.

* * *

“Mycroft,” John says with surprise in his voice as he ducks his head through the door.

As he comes in, Mycroft stands up readying himself to leave. “Dr Watson, I’m glad to see bridges are being mended.” At the edge of his vision he sees Sherlock roll his eyes.  

John gives a nervous chuckle. “Uh…thanks. For everything.”  Mycroft keeps his expression blank, not willing to give anything away to Sherlock. John takes his lead, suddenly gesturing to the baby carrier. “What do you think?”

“About?” he asks, watching Sherlock move to John’s side and incline his head towards the carrier

“Rosie,” Sherlock prods.

Rosie burbles and kicks her legs out.  He vaguely recalls Sherlock showing him a photo of an infant and he nods his head plastering on a smile, feigning interest in the baby Watson. “She is acceptable.”

John lets out a huff. “Acceptable?”

Sherlock smirks and bends down to unbuckle her. She lets out a squeal as her perspective changes, now much higher up thanks to Sherlock carrying her in his arms. “Don’t be offended John, that’s his version of compliment.”

“My apologies – people are…” he trails off, watching Sherlock kiss Rosie on the cheek as she points at something.

John waves his words away. “I know, I know – my fault for asking.”

He had almost forgotten that John was there, still too alarmed by his brother’s behaviour. He knew John would be dangerous. “I’ll take my leave,” he starts, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small wrapped box.

Sherlock stares at him, looking offended. “What’s that? I don’t want it.”

“That’s too bad.” He places the box on the table. “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

John rocks on his feet, looking confused. “Happy birthday? No, it was…It’s today? Why did you-oh you dickhead,” John laughs rounding on Sherlock.  Mycroft smiles. “He told me that his birthday was last week.”

“No, you ‘deduced’ that my birthday last week.”  

“Why on earth would you do that?” asks John.

Sherlock tilts his head. “Because you  needed a win.”

And at that Mycroft leaves.

* * *

Hearing his mother’s voice, he sits up, ignoring Sherlock’s suspicious gaze. “What’s wrong? Mycroft?”

His mother sounds flustered, but her voice is steady, in the background he hears his father continuous whisper to, ‘ _ask him about Sherlock’_ and his mother’s huff as she tells him, _‘I’m getting there!’_

“Sherlock’s with me,” he interjects quickly before it dissolves any further. “Who told you?” His mother answers. Sherlock gets up from the couch and stands on top of the coffee table in an effort to force Mycroft to pay attention to him. “Of course…fine…No stay where you are – I’ll send security to you.”

“Mycroft!”

He sighs, lamenting that she never seems to believe him when he tells her that he can make people literally disappear. She thinks he’s being funny. “Mummy, this is what I do. Let me do it.” Eventually she hangs up and he stares up at Sherlock who is trying to figure out what’s going on.

There’s something niggling in the back of his mind. “Give me your laptop.”

Sherlock immediately moves to the right, standing in front of it and blocking his access. “Why?”

“Just do it,” he snaps letting the tiniest bit of worry seep into his voice.

It’s enough, for Sherlock reluctantly hops down from the coffee-table and passes it over.

He brings up the video footage of that night, zooming in on the image of Sherlock and the woman sitting at the bus stop. Sherlock stares. “That’s Faith…or the one I thought was Faith.”

“Tell me about her – what did you deduce?” He clicks through the frames of the video, wondering if she had help disrupting the video feeds – it’s the only reasonable answer for it’s sporadic ability to work.

There’s a tense line in Sherlock’s shoulders and he closes his eyes trying to recount his deductions. “Single. Suicidal. We had chips.” He catches the smile that Sherlock tries to hide. “She was…pleasant. She thought I was sweet...said I was nice,” he says, his voice just on the verge of disbelieving.

 _Oh Sherlock._ “What else?”

“History of self-harm. She lives in a small place.”

“From the paper.” He holds the note in his hand for a moment holding it up to the light and then bringing it under his nose.

“Under UV it says _Miss Me._ ” Moriarty? “What’s that?” He brings up a schematic of a room tilting the screen in Sherlock’s direction. “Those dimensions match the light dispersion.” His eyes flick between the screen and the paper. “Mycroft?”

Gently, he closes the lid of the laptop and places on the floor trying to figure out how to explain what may be occurring. “The east wind is coming to get you Sherlock,” he says feeling shock settle briefly in his veins. “I have to leave. You need to call John and tell him to come to Baker Street immediately with Rosie. I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

“Who is she?” Sherlock asks, patting down his pockets and huffing when his phone is not there. He spins around, throwing cushions and papers around trying to find it.

“Sherlock, you don’t recognise her?” He shrugs on his suit jacket and buttons it.

“Obviously not.” Sherlock’s face screws up, his disdain for the situation showing through his scrunched up nose, and his mouth that’s pulled slightly to the right. “Will you just tell me?”

“That’s Eurus.”

 “Oh.”

“You aren’t surprised.” Shuffling a few pages to the side, he spies Sherlock’s phone and throws it over.

“I asked Mummy a few years ago. She told me a little bit about her. I think I remember some things.” His brow furrows. “She…” He pauses, his face changing rapidly before settling on a mixture of wariness, confusion and hurt, before taking a knife and stabbing the note into the wall.  

Mrs Hudson and John’s words come back to Mycroft.

_“Well, what does he do with anything he can’t answer, John? Every time?”_

_“He stabs it.”_

Sherlock stares at the note, trying to assimilate what he knows with the new information. His voice is quiet and unsure, “I never did anything to her.”

“I know.”

“She’s coming after me,” Sherlock says, his finger ready to speed-dial John as soon as possible.

Mycroft nods, exiting the room and making his way down the stairs. Sherlock trails after him, stopping at the threshold of the door. “But she’s not going to get you, brother mine,” he says over his shoulder.

The door of 221B clicks shut. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! And best of luck with TFP - I hope we all survive!


End file.
